His big brown eyes
by Lena Ban Obsidian
Summary: Omi monologue. There's love in the air.


His Big Brown Eyes  
Lena

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The most attractive thing about him is his smile. Aya would say that it's silly, that I'm no better than the school girls who frequent the shop. Yohji would huff that the ease with which he uses it cheapens it; but I know they're wrong. It's because of that readiness that it is precious. It's because even that, that sunny simple charm, is natural to him. 

Of the four of us, he's the most masculine, with rough calluses adorning his hands. He always shows up late for work, and almost always, the reason is soccer. He cares deeply about things that never occur to the rest of us, and he acts as a saint would act. I love him. Of course I love him. The lines of his shoulders and the musk of his skin. His voice, the precise timbre and lilt of it. His habit of laying an unassuming arm across my shoulders when he sees that I'm not as happy as I seem. How could I resist him? Even if I represent a sibling to him, even if I represent a child to him, even if that never changes, I will always want to have his presence. I want to have more than his presence. I want to be something to him that I never thought I could be to anyone. I want to be the reason he finally decides to come home from the soccer field. The one who pulls him to bed, ignoring the grass stains and sweat and soil he's acquired because I can. 

And most of all, I want to be special in his big brown eyes. 

It drives me to distraction when the women flock into the store and separate us even more than we already are, by mutual agreement not to be too close. It hurts me to see them admiring him and the way that he is just as helpless before their girlish affection as the rest of us. I picture him strong, stronger than Aya. Smarter, in a way, too. Aya thinks; Ken reacts. And I love to watch him cook, because he can't cook. I love to watch the way he turns around, slowly, when someone walks by, ignoring him. I love that Yohji and Aya notice it too, though I'm sure Yohji is really just noticing his ass; a typically Yohji thing to do. 

There is heaven in the gaze of those eyes. 

Consequentially, because I want him to notice me, I am sure that he doesn't. And every night when I go to bed, I can hear him flopping noisily down into the creaky springs of his ancient mattress. The sounds of his tossing and turning, trying to find a comfortable position, always last at least five minutes. Then there is a mumbled phrase, occasionally, always too low and quiet for me to hear. Just the rumble of his voice is pleasant enough, I figure, and settle down into my own bed, and think of the thin wall between my own personal hero and myself. It's torture. I lie for hours dreaming sadly of what I wish could be, and only when my hand goes numb do I realize how awkwardly I lay. I fall into restless sleep, because he is there, just beyond my wall, and I cannot touch him, not one part of him, and the only thing I want to do is press my hand against his tanned skin and look at the contrast. 

And of all his qualities, there is only one I consider a flaw. He is terribly shy. And I am terribly shy. Yohji sees me glance at him multiple times in a minute and takes note of it, mocks me each day a little more cruelly. He wants me to act first, but I can't. Not when the one I want is no less than a god, a divine incarnation, and I don't think I have the nerve to presume that he is ever thinking of me the way I am thinking of him. 

Of him and his beautiful eyes. 

Our time together is immaterial, so long as each night ends with him in the room next to me. It goes on that way for months before anything interrupts the rhythm. And how shameful, that I don't see it coming; the darkness of the night is made complete by storms on the day when things change. I am lost in contemplation of him, when I should be watching out for trouble, and there are consequences. Perhaps Fate finally got sick of my pining; at least I am the one hurt, not him, by my mistakes. In powerful arms, arms that could crush me with claws that could tear me up a thousand times, he carries me back to his bed on the other side of the thin wall. 

He bandages the wounds, admonishes me only once, in a harsh, soft, roughened whisper. His mouth trembles with emotion, and his shadow radiates concern as I lie there, staring stupidly up at him, forgetting that minor pain in my arm for a chance to openly appraise the one I love. Torn and dirty with the fight, his jacket is hanging further back on his shoulders than usual, showing the smooth lines of his chest. They are accented by his sweat damp t-shirt, the delectable curve of his arms at his sides seeming to beckon to me helplessly. 

I say something I don't remember ever meaning to say, but mean it, forcefully, desperately, hopefully. I say it and then we are both quiet for a very long time, as I wait for his reaction, terrified that my god will be angry at my presumption. I only want to see him smile at me, if even that, but he just stands there, looking lifeless, shocked. I begin to fear for a brief moment that somehow I've hurt him, when suddenly he comes back to life, clutches me close violently, shudders with emotion and fiercely demands that I never get hurt like this again. His arms are wrapped around me, warm, protective, perfect: I promise him to be safe. I link my own arms around his neck as he draws back, peering into my face, judging my honesty. 

In the darkness, I can see it. There is passion shining behind those big brown eyes. 

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